


Bad Becomes Worse

by monicawoe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Captain America: The First Avenger, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Marking, Needles, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Withdrawal, bucky pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse.</p><p>
  <i>Angsty Post-Zola Bucky and Steve. Really I just needed an excuse to write lots of sex in tents. With biting.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CA:TFA and post CA:TWS; big thanks to my beta shippen_stand.
> 
> Translations at end of text.

The days have no beginning and no end. Bucky dwells in a half-life of blurred vision and pain, one bespectacled devil named Zola ever by his side. It took Bucky until now, whenever now is, to realize the truth—that he's already dead. And as soon as he understands that, he knows exactly where he is.

Bucky has never had any delusions about where he was headed. He's known mortal sin since he was ten years old and took down a bird with a slingshot. He felt bad about it for weeks afterwards, because, really, he didn't think he could make the shot. But he did—got the thing right in its head. Nobody saw him do it, and somehow that made it worse.

He's killed plenty else in the war. Bullets fly faster than stones, but men die slower than birds. Sometimes he sees their faces standing around his cot, watching silently as Zola hooks up another sack of glowing blue liquid. He talks to himself, the doctor, in muttered German, or in English. When Bucky is cognizant enough to understand the words, he wonders why Zola is so open about what he's doing. And then he remembers, he's already dead. There's no chance for escape, because this is Hell. He's meant to know what's being done to him, because that's the real torture—knowing and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it.

The needles dig into his skin, dozens of sharp teeth that push down into his muscles and further until they scrape against bone. He can hear himself scream when the needles release their payload and that acid sears into him. His body chars from the inside and Bucky clings to the life he lost like a crumbling raft. In his last few moments of consciousness, he takes solace in the fact that Steve's back home and alive. Steve has a bright future ahead of him, a whole life to live, and he shouldn't waste a minute thinking of the dead and condemned.

Sometimes, Bucky dreams of Steve—of his smile—of his soul, his indomitable will. He wishes he had half of Steve's conviction and calls on it, tries to summon it into himself the next time Zola pierces his skin. He spits out insults, tells the demon that he's not real. But Zola laughs, and the amusement sounds so genuine, Bucky falters, forgets to be like Steve and the pain overwhelms him, pulls him under until he drowns in it.

When Bucky starts to wake again, limbs and veins aching, he recites his name, rank and serial number, remembering what the army taught him—give them this, and nothing else—not a word. He thinks of Steve while he says those words and numbers, thinks of Steve, even though there's no chance in Hell he'll ever see him again, because there's nobody else he wants to see. So he thinks of Steve until he dreams of him. He dreams of Steve, and it's so real he thinks he can hear him saying his name.

And then someone's touching him.

Bucky opens his eyes and Steve is looking down at him, and Bucky's heart leaps in his chest until he realizes what it means, with dawning horror, and no Steve's not supposed to be down here, not him. _He's not supposed to be here. He's a good kid. I belong here, not him. Not him._ But it's Steve, Steve who helps him sit, and smiles at him with Steve's smile, but something's off, the way things always are in dreams. Steve's smile is real—the way Bucky remembers—but his body's larger than it has any right to be. He breaks the straps holding Bucky down with his bare hands, and pulls Bucky to his feet with no effort and Bucky should be relieved, should be thankful, but all he can think is: what have they _done_ to you?

The demons try to stop them from escaping — Zola and Schmidt—who peels back his face and says Erskine's formula changed him as it changed Steve, and Bucky remembers the name Erskine. Zola told him all about Erskine when he injected burning blue acid into Bucky. And Bucky feels it festering under his skin, wonders if his own face will peel back like Schmidt's.

 

#

Something's in Bucky's veins—a constant itching just beneath the surface, too deep to scratch, too insidious to ignore. Zola rearranged Bucky's insides, pumped him full of God-knows-what over and over again. Bucky knows Steve saved him before Zola could finish whatever he was doing, and he knows that's a good thing. But he feels off—jagged vision and tilting equilibrium getting worse, not better, as they get further away from the destroyed base. He hopes it's exhaustion; tells himself that rest, water and food will make it better.

The march back from the Austrian border feels endless. The hours and days bleed in and out of each other, as Bucky and the hundreds Steve rescued make their way through the mountains, trudging through thick forests, across vast stretches of farmland and down abandoned roads.

They didn't come away from Hydra's base empty handed; they commandeered a tank and one supply truck stuffed with ration packs and a dozen two-man tents. It's not nearly enough to house them all, so they give the tents to the injured in the group. Bucky insists he's fine to sleep outside but Steve refuses, as do the others.

"We know what they put you through," one of them says. Dugan.

 _How could you?_ Bucky thinks, _When I don't even know?_ But he gives a grateful nod, because Steve's still looking at him like he's a shooting star and Bucky's still not used to being shorter than Steve.

And that's how Bucky ends up alone in a small tent. Steve is outside, talking to the others in a low hushed voice. Earlier, he told Bucky to get some rest, doesn't understand that Bucky can't rest, can't even close his eyes because Zola and the Red Skull are burned onto his retinas and he's not sure he can ever sleep again.

But since he's finally alone, he stops delaying the inevitable and lifts his shirt. He didn't want to check when Steve was there, didn't want him to see the mess that Zola has made of Bucky's body—all the holes and scars, but all that time in Hell— in Zola's lab—has made Bucky morbidly curious. He has to know how bad it is, see if he can find the cause of the itching under his skin, see how wide the infection's spread. He can still feel the needles piercing his skin and the burn of acid in his blood, the memories of slim blades and clamps so fresh that his body still aches with them.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut once more and then forces them open, staring down at his chest, ready to see the damage, the long rows of angry red dots where the needles went into his arms, and the welts and cuts on his stomach and legs. At first he sees nothing, but it's dim in the tent, dusk outside, so he grabs the lantern, lights it and pulls it close, strips his shirt off completely. Judging by the distance of Steve's voice, just down the hill, that he still has enough time.

But…there's nothing. There's not a mark on him. He runs his fingers over his chest, down to his belly-button, remembers the scalpel cutting him apart, the flesh peeled back up to his ribs, remembers the needle sticking out from his heart, the way it had bled. But there's nothing there. His skin is clean again—too clean—even the bruises and scrapes he'd gotten during his stay with those Hydra goons are gone. He's unmarred, except for the scar he's had on his knee since his fourteenth birthday when he skidded halfway across the baseball field.

"No," he says, and the wretched sound of his own voice startles him. He runs his fingers down again, searching for something—a discoloration, a hardening of scar tissue—anything. He brings his wrists up to his face, squints until he can see every pore, every hair, but there's nothing. No puncture wounds from the needles, no bruising, not a single mark. Like nothing had happened. Like he'd never even been there.

The tent flap opens quietly, but Bucky hears the fabric move, brings his knees up to his chest and scrambles for his shirt.

Steve's eyes widen when he sees him. "S-sorry, I—I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," Bucky says. He pulls his shirt over his head, gives Steve a weak smile. "Couldn't sleep anyway."

Steve sits down next to him. "The others were asking about you. You coming over to the fire?"

Bucky swallows. "Not yet." He thinks for a moment and then decides to ask, because he's always tried to be honest with Steve. Plus, he's the only one who can answer the question. "When you found me, were there needles in me? Tubes?"

Steve nods, slides closer to him, shoulder to shoulder. "Yeah. I pulled them out…" He points to Bucky's wrist and the bend of his arm. "Here, and here."

Relief burns hot in Bucky's eyes. At least his mind's not so compromised that he imagined it all. He tugs down on the cuffs of his sleeves.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, a sharp edge of worry in his voice, "do you—we've got at least five medics out there, and—"

"I'm fine," Bucky says. _Where are the holes, where are the puncture marks?_ He wants to ask Steve, the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get them out. He feels ashamed, remembers the way the doctor frowned down at him, shaking his head. He remembers what Zola kept hidden behind that wall.

"So what—" Bucky swallows, forces down the roiling in his gut. "…what happened to you?" he asks, eyes on the small lantern.

And then Steve tells Bucky what Erskine did.

Bucky listens, first with disbelief, then with awe.

"That's what the serum does," Steve says. "Or at least that's how Erskine explained it. Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse."

"Oh." Bucky tries to think of something else to say, but finds he can't do much more than offer Steve a weak smile. He rests his head against the pillow, stares up at the roof of the tent. The itching under Bucky's skin grows worse as those words burrow into him. _Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse._

Steve slides his sleeping bag closer, wraps a heavy arm around Bucky. His breathing is steady and it calms Bucky's heart, until it occurs to him how ironic that is, what a fitting reversal. He used to hold Steve just like this when his lungs ached and it was too cold for their measly radiator to heat much more than the two square feet surrounding it.

The air outside is freezing cold, he can see his breath when he exhales, but it doesn't bother him nearly as much as Steve's steady, unlabored breathing. Not that he isn't happy Steve is healthy. He deserves a body as great as his mind. _Good becomes great._ Steve was always great.

But Bucky wasn't. Bucky isn't. And whatever he is now, is worse. _Bad becomes worse._ The thought runs through Bucky's head over and over and he remembers the Red Skull's hideous, distorted face. Remembers those things behind the wall, the rows of cylinders filled with bloated, distended bodies, and their soundless screams. And Bucky knows that's why he feels so wrong inside, because Zola didn't finish, but he started. _Bad becomes worse._

Steve is hot as a furnace, and Bucky is grateful for the respite from the icy cold outside, but when he closes his eyes, all he can see is Zola—standing just outside the tent. For hours, Bucky lies awake, staring through the thin fabric of the tent, watching the doctor prep one needle after another. He knows it's not real, but only because Zola doesn't make a single sound, and Bucky can hear everything—every stir of branches in the wind, every cautious step of the deer and squirrels. So Bucky listens, watches the puppet-theater of his mind, until finally exhaustion takes its toll, his ears start to ring and his body just shuts off.

#

They return to base camp, to astonished, elated cheers. Everyone there lines up to see, giving them breadth. Steve's grin is the widest it's ever been. Bucky feels it, before he sees the curve of his lips out of the corner of his eyes. He smiles back, considering only then what a miracle it is—all of it. That he survived, that Steve rescued him, that nearly their whole division is returning on foot. He straightens, ignores the buzzing under his skin and the twinges at the back of his skull and smiles back at Steve, as brightly as he can manage. He owes Steve a smile, and so much more.

Colonel Phillips meets them. Steve salutes. "Some of those men need medical attention."

To their right, the medics start to move between them.

"I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action" Steve says.

"That won't be necessary," the colonel says evenly.

A woman in uniform walks past, directly to Steve and the way he looks at her makes Bucky's stomach drop.

"You're late," she says.

Steve smiles at her, and _oh_ how he smiles. He reaches down, pulls out his shrapnel-torn radio "Couldn't call my ride."

Bucky sees the look of adoration in her eyes, a mirror of his own feelings for Steve and his heart clenches. He looks around and sees echoes of that awe in the eyes of everyone around them. Finally, everyone else sees the greatness in Steve, what Bucky has always seen, and he's filled with pride, but even stronger is the overwhelming fear Bucky feels at that moment.

Because how can he protect Steve now? Physically he's useless compared to Steve and Steve—there's no way to talk Steve out of fighting every damn battle in the world now. Not when he's been made into a living weapon. Before that fear and sorrow can pull Bucky down too far he turns to those behind him, and shouts, "Hey! let's hear it for Captain America!"

Everyone applauds, and that fear anchors itself in Bucky's stomach and turns to lead.

#

Steve is gone for hours the next day, meeting with the brass. Bucky leaves his tent when his hunger gets too insistent to shut out.

"Sleep okay?" Morita asks after a while.

"Not really," Bucky says. "You?"

"Like a baby." Morita tears off a hunk of the bread and chews before answering. "Sixteen hours easy." He tilts his head. "Woke up thinking I was back home in Fresno."

"Yeah, well you're not," Dugan says sitting down next to him. He catches Bucky's gaze. "You look like twice-warmed-over shit, Barnes."

"Thanks, Timothy," Bucky says, downing the rest of his coffee. There's grounds at the bottom that make his tongue silty. He grimaces, trying to work them back out.

"Where'd Rogers go?"

"To see Philips I think. Had some intel he got from the base."

Dugan swallows. Morita flicks his eyes to them. "I heard there's over a dozen bases just like that one."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Dugan says. "Those nut-jobs have their own agenda. Rumor has it they've defected from the German army. Fighting their own war."

"Great. Like one psycho army wasn't bad enough." Morita scoffs.

"Hydra's weapons are worse," Dugan says. "Or you know, better." He drinks from his coffee cup, wrinkles his nose. "I've never seen people just disintegrate like that."

"Some kind of lasers," Morita says shrugging. "And they're building canons and bombs made from the same stuff."

"They're not lasers," Bucky says and then stops himself. He's not sure how knows but he's certain of it. "It's plasma energy."

"What's that?" Dugan asks.

"The stuff that powers the weapons…" Bucky remembers Zola talking to Schmidt on more than one occasion, bits of German coming back to him.

_"Aber wir wissen immer noch nicht wie es funktioniert," the doctor says._

_"Das ist egal," Schmidt barks.  "Die Energie ist unbegrenzt, und sie gehört uns."_

"They don't even know exactly what it does. It's something they found."

"That a fact?" Morita asks, eyebrows raised. "How do you know?"

_"Unbegrenzte Energie," Zola says, as he pulls another glowing vial out of the blue box.  "Aber von der menschlichen Schwachheit begrenzt."_

_"Finden Sie mich auch begrenzt, Herr Doktor?" Schmidt asks, crowding Zola until the shorter man begins to shake._

Bucky clears his throat. "The doctor used to talk to himself when he was…working on me. When he thought I was out cold. Sometimes Schmidt stopped by too, to uh…check on his progress."

Morita gave him a steady look. "For what it's worth, man, I'm sorry."

Bucky shrugs it off. "I got out. Steve got me out—got all of us out."

"Yeah, you know, we ought to do something about that," Dugan says. "He gets back tonight, right?"

"Said he'd be back for dinner, yeah."

Well, there's only one bar nearby. Twenty miles from here." Dugan's mouth cracks into a grin. "Seems to me like we've only got one choice."

"Now you're talking," Morita says mirroring Dugan's smile. "Barnes, think Rogers'll come out with us?"

"Sure." Not like you could actually talk Steve into doing anything he didn't want to do, but Bucky has a hunch he'll be up for this. "'Course it's not even noon."

"Yup, gonna have to find some way to pass the time." Dugan says stretching. "Think I'll go back to the med-tent. See if that nurse with the braids is still on duty."

"Her name's Marie," Morita says. "She's from Glensdale."

Dugan cocks an eyebrow.

"Sometimes being a medic has its advantages," Morita says, with a smirk.

Bucky excuses himself and heads out of the mess hall. It's brisk outside, and the air is heavy with the scent of rain.

He wanders aimlessly for a few minutes until he gets to the base's training grounds and he seeks out the shooting range. They give him three different guns to practice with; rifle, handgun, laser-shotgun—the last was salvaged from Hydra. He runs his finger over the glowing blue plasma chamber and his heart stutters in response.

He lines the crosshairs up, aims, fires. By the time he's done, the targets are riddled with bullets, and the red center circle of the target disc is completely perforated.

Hours later, he leaves the practice range, feeling a stillness he hasn't known since before he was taken.

#

Steve's got that look about him when he comes back—determined, and dead-set on getting his way. Steve tells Bucky his plan—says he knows where the weapons bases are, wants him and everybody else from the 107th who'll go to come with him—help him stop Hydra once and for all.

A strange sort of shiver runs down Bucky's spine. He doesn't want to go anywhere near Hydra ever again but the thought of taking them down, the thought of getting Zola in his crosshairs and out of his head makes him grin.

It doesn't take much to convince Steve to head out to the bar, in fact, he seems downright amicable about it.

#

They go to celebrate. Five drinks in, Bucky still isn't feeling any calmer. The bourbon's strong, but not strong enough. And as soon as Steve leaves to go talk to the others, Bucky's mind wanders back to Zola, back to that damn room, and the failed experiments behind the wall. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimmer of glowing blue in the veins of his hands.

Steve comes back, smiling. He had no trouble convincing the others. They all agreed of course, and Bucky knew he was going the second he saw Steve's eyes. Part of him cringes, screams warnings of _needles and never-ending pain_ , but there's another part, deeper down and hungry, that salivates at the thought. He pushes it back with another big sip of bourbon, tells Steve he'll follow him anywhere.

A woman in red comes in, stunning enough to bring the whole place to a halt. Peggy Carter. The Peggy that greeted Steve at base, the Peggy that Steve went on and on about on the long march back. She's gorgeous and knows it and only has eyes for Steve. And the moment Steve sees her, he only has eyes for her. Bucky feels himself dissipating, drifting into the thick air of the bar like scattered ash. So he leaves minutes after she does. Steve wants to go with him, but the tab's under his name.

#

Bucky follows Peggy back to the base, down the long, sloping path through the small village. He slips between the bordering trees, boots silenced by the soft bed of pine. Miss Carter walks without fear, a red beacon in the night, and Bucky wonders if she knows how easy she is to spot, or if she cares.

About forty meters from the gate of the base she pauses and says, quietly. "Whoever you are, either show yourself now, or get lost. I'm armed, as are all four-hundred and ninety men at the base up ahead."

Bucky cracks his knuckles and, takes a sharp left, deeper into the woods. He weaves in and out of the pines, until the sounds of the base fade. His heart's still pounding, and he feels high-strung, too much tension in his limbs to get a full breath.

His mind spews back memories from earlier that night, _Steve's suit, and his overgrown new body. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?" Peggy's gaze locked solely on Steve, reminding Bucky just how unneeded he is now, in every way. "The right partner."_

The pine quivers as Bucky's fists collide with it, again and again, muffled by the dense forest.

His thoughts drift back further to clamps and scalpels, acid in his veins, to Zola and his endless speeches. _"Energie so gnadenlos wie Sie, Herr Schmidt."_

Pine needles start to rain down as he punches harder and harder, and by the time he's done, his knuckles are sticky with blood and sap. He wipes them against his jacket sleeves, notes in a strangely detached fashion how little his hands hurt. If anything, they feel numb, but his fingers still bend when he tells them to, sending a fresh trickle of blood out of the torn skin.

"Is there a problem, soldier?" asks a voice from behind.

Bucky whips around, finds a private looking back at him, face pale in the tepid glow of his flashlight. "Just had to take a piss." Bucky cracks a smile, walks towards the private, exaggerating his gait to look more like it should after hours of drinking.

The private relaxes. "Base is this way, sergeant," he says, shining the light towards the road.

"Thanks," Bucky says and follows the man back out of the trees.

#

Steve is already in the tent when Bucky gets back. He's in his undershirt, sketching, and his eyes flick immediately down to Bucky's hands. "What happened?"

Bucky shrugs. "Took a short-cut through the woods. Tree wouldn't get out of my way."

Unconvinced, Steve nods and sets his sketchbook on his lap. Bucky catches a glimpse of what he was drawing—long curling hair, dark eyes and delicately arched eyebrows. Something low curdles in his gut. He doesn't want to be jealous, shouldn't be. Steve deserves a woman as incredible as Peggy, and she's clearly got her eyes on Steve.

As Bucky strips out of his jacket and lies on top of his sleeping mat, the last flare of anger in his gut sputters out and he feels resignation settle inside of him, weighing down his bones.

Next to him, Steve falls heavily against his own pillow.

Bucky's still wide awake, and dreads staring at the inside of the tent again for hours on end. Steve's not tired either though, as much as he pretends to be at first. After a while, Bucky can feel Steve's eyes on him. He turns on his side, so they're facing each other. "What?"

Even in the dark of the tent, he can see Steve's cheeks flush. "I'm just…I'm glad you're okay."

Bucky manages a smile of gratitude. "Thanks to you."

"Wish I'd gotten there sooner," Steve says. Carefully, he reaches his hand out, puts it over Bucky's. There's something wrong with the way Steve's hand covers Bucky's so completely. It used to be the other way around, Bucky thinks, as he jerks it away. But then he sees Steve's face fall, shame flickering across his face. And that's the last thing Bucky wants. So he puts his hand over Steve's, looks him in the eyes and really takes him in.

Steve watches him, mouth parted, and Bucky wonders if he still doesn't know. _How could he not know how beautiful he is and always was._

"This…" Bucky runs his fingers up Steve's obscenely broad arm and shoulder, a weird mix of awe and horror in his gut. He looks, Bucky thinks, like man thinks man should look—the apex of man, man as god. "Erskine did all this…" Bucky trails his hand down Steve's biceps, spreading his fingers wide.

"Yeah."

"With needles and a machine."

"And Vita-rays," Steve says. "Some kind of controlled radioactivity, I guess."

"Geez, Steve," Bucky says, choked whisper. This isn't the Steve he's known all his life, isn't the Steve he lived with, but it is. His body feels all wrong, thick muscle where there used to be delicate, bird-thin bones. Bucky used to think if he hugged Steve too hard he'd shatter, and even though he'd hated himself for it, he'd loved that and now, now he knows that if Steve wanted to he could break Bucky's wrists just as easily. "What'd they do to you?"

"They fixed me," Steve says, with a crooked half-smile.

"No," Bucky sits up, hands clenching. His knuckles crack, loud in the night's stillness. "No. There was nothing wrong with you."

Steve laughs. "Oh come on. There was _everything_ wrong with me. My lungs, my eyes, my ears—" He looks down at his new, huge hands and gestures at himself. "My body was broken."

Bucky swallows down the sourness in his throat. "No, it wasn't. You got sick more than most, but it—it wasn't—" he tries to put into words what he's feeling but it gets caught in the back of his brain. "You know, when Hydra had me, every day I was in that room, I thought of you. You're the one that got me through and kept me going, because I knew I'd see you again one day—"

"Sorry I didn't get there sooner." Those big fingers cup Bucky's cheek, Steve smiles at him. "But—"

"—you, the _real_ you." Bucky meets Steve's gaze, sees what his words are doing, but pushes on, because this confession has to come out, he can't shove it back down, not anymore. "But those…those monsters took you away from me too, and now you're—"

"I know it's weird, believe me. But, it's better." Steve sits up, eyes glassy and wide. "I can finally breathe, and—and I can run for miles without getting tired." He puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "And I can hear well with both ears, and I can see—" He lowers his head down to catch Bucky's gaze. "I can see your eyes and I had no idea, Buck—I thought I knew, but—I had no idea how _blue_ they were."

And Bucky knows he's supposed to be happy, be thankful, say a kind word back to Steve, but he can't. He can't think of a single word that isn't bitter and full of regret. So he lays on his side, with his back facing Steve, miserable. Only a few seconds pass before one of those heavy arms wraps itself around him, circling his waist.

Bucky accepts then, with a bitter taste on his tongue, that he liked Steve better when he was sickly, wishes he could suck the serum out of Steve's blood like snake venom. It's a bad thought, an awful thought.

"What'd he tell you about," Bucky chews on his lip. "About what he did to— about what he gave you?"

"The serum," Steve's voice rumbles low through his warm, broad chest against Bucky's back and he shivers, spine bristling again, electrostatic running up and down his nerves. "He said the serum brings out what's inside and amplifies it."

_Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse._

Bucky's heart clenches and he remembers what Zola had said as he'd pulled the vials from a blue cube that glowed and pulsed like a heartbeat. _"It makes gods of men, yes, but Erskine had one thing wrong." And that glowing liquid burned like fire in Bucky's veins, scalded him on the inside and Bucky screamed around the bit in his mouth, screamed until he went hoarse. And Zola said, "Gods are not cruel by nature, but man is. And men born of war are the cruelest of them all."_

"You were already great," Bucky says to Steve, and to himself, his mind whispers, _"Bad becomes worse,"_ over and over and over. He shudders again, feeling that slick glowing blue press against his insides like a breathing thing. Steve pulls him in close, holding him tightly like Bucky used to hold Steve when his fever broke and Bucky feels sick. He closes his eyes, tries to think of Steve in _his_ arms, imagines him small and safe and aches with the longing for it.

 

#

Out on the battlefield, Bucky finds peace. The smell of gunpowder and blood in the air makes everything around him fade to grey. Everything except Steve and the Hydra scum they're hunting—they're overly saturated, inkblots of red, black and green. He takes them down easily, too easily—targeting and firing before he consciously decides to do so. It's like he's found a way to bypass the effort and concentration required to line up a perfect shot. He does it naturally, arms and hands steadier than they've ever been as he shoots one skull after the other.

The others are scared of Bucky. He can see it in their eyes, even if they don't have the guts to tell him to his face. But they are—Morita caught Bucky's mask slipping when he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger, saw the emptiness there. Morita saw, and now he knows, just like the others, that Sergeant Barnes is an act, one they all keep going, because the alternative would be worse.

It's an awful feeling—stuck mid-metamorphosis—halfway between the man he used to be and the thing he's becoming. Bucky thinks sometimes that if he took a blade to his face and peeled it back, he'd look just like the Red Skull. Maybe more monstrous. He feels monstrous, jagged and uneven. He wonders if they tried to put somebody else in his head, if that's what Zola was doing with his machines and his needles. Maybe he was trying to put that other mind inside of Bucky's head and ran out of time. It has to be somebody else in there, because if it isn't, then it's him, it's all him, and that's the part that scares him the most, the part he can't tell Steve.

Of course Steve knows anyway—Bucky saw the flash of horror and disappointment in Steve's eyes when he caught Bucky crushing a Hydra soldier's head under his boot. More force than he should've been capable of, and unnecessary since the man had been shot clean between the eyes. Bucky wasn't sure why he'd done it. He'd had an urge to see what was inside the guy's head. See if his brain was flesh and blood inside or something else.

Steve doesn't say a thing in France, but the worry-creases on his forehead get deeper by the week. It's not until Belgium, until the day Bucky kills thirteen Hydra soldiers in under four minutes that Steve pulls him aside and asks, "What was that?"

"A baker's dozen of dead Nazis," Bucky says, meeting Steve's tense expression dead on. He didn't do anything wrong. And like Hell if he's gonna be made to feel guilty about taking those lives.

#

And yet guilt gnaws at Bucky throughout the afternoon. Not for the men he killed, but for putting that look on Steve's face. Death is the norm now—he kills because he has to, but Steve's faith in him is what keeps him going. If he loses that…well if he loses that, then he's lost.

At night, their tent becomes a confessional, and in the dark, when he hears Steve's breathing slow, Bucky lists every one of his sins, starting with the most recent. _"I killed thirteen men, and I didn't feel a thing."_ There are so many others, and he goes backwards by days and months and years _"If I could've found a way to get out of being drafted, I would've. I swear I would've. That winter in '32 when you had pneumonia, I stole the codeine syrup from Fleischmann's. Remember Keith Gorman who broke your nose in ninth grade? It wasn't a bike accident that messed up his leg."_

He tells Steve everything, because he can't stop himself, can't stop the truths from tumbling out one after the other. He doesn't feel better afterwards, but he feels lighter—emptier. Empty enough that he can shut out his own heartbeat, let himself sync to the rhythm of Steve's, pounding against his back so strongly he can pretend it's his own.

 _"Bad becomes worse,"_ Bucky repeats silently to himself—over and over, counting sheep, counting bullets as he tries to ignore the memories of needles and acid in his veins. _"Bad becomes worse."_ He doesn't realize he's saying the words out loud until Steve's hand starts to stroke his cheek, until Steve turns him on his back, waits for him to open his eyes.

"Whatever Zola did, it hasn't changed who you are." Steve's calm expression doesn't look forced, but it's dark.

"It has," Bucky says, whisper-quiet. "I can feel it— It's—something's off." He sits up, frustrated by his inability to put it into words. "Like I don't feel things quite the way I used to."

Steve swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes dilated just a fraction and nobody should be able to see that with this little light. But Bucky can, and he knows without a doubt that Steve sees the same details mirrored on Bucky's face.

And maybe he was right, maybe the serum wasn't inherently bad just because it'd been given to Bucky by a madman, maybe he'd given him the exact same stuff Steve had gotten from Erskine. But even if— even if. Bad becomes worse.

"People that go through stuff—bad stuff—in the war… They don't come out of it the same," Steve says. "I read about it, knew that going in, knew that we could—get caught, stuff could happen that'd—"

Bucky nods. "Yeah but that ain't it." He shudders. "Zola's a sick bastard, and hell, I still have nightmares about him poking and prodding, but… that ain't what this is." He looks up at the tent, at the shadow of a moth that has landed atop the tent. There were only a handful of bugs that could stand temperatures this cold, but the ones that could, weren't phased by it. "It's like, there's skills you have to have in a war to be useful, you know?"

"Like a healthy set of lungs," Steve says smiling, still trying to keep it lighthearted.

"Yeah, or good aim," Bucky lays back down, but keeps staring up at the outline of the moth. "Things that make you useful. And some things, the more you practice, the better you get at it, right?"

Steve's brow furrows. "You've always been a crack shot."

"Yeah, but not like this—" he runs his fingers through his hair. "I can hear them, Steve," he whispers. "I can see them move, miles away, hear their—their breathing, their damned heartbeats. I can smell them. Like some kinda bloodhound." He closes his eyes and when he opens them again the moth has rotated, thirty degrees. "And when I put 'em down…" He forces himself to continue. "I don't feel bad about it no more. Not even a little. Only guilt I feel is when I see you looking at me like I kicked a puppy."

For a minute, the tent stays silent. Then Steve takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Buck." He swallows and says, "We're doing what we have to do. You've been at this for months, it's normal for you to—"

"It's normal for me to feel something, some kinda regret or a pang of guilt or—or anything!"

Steve reaches his hand out again, puts his hand over Bucky's. "You shut it off, so you can do what you have to do when you aim that gun, it's how a lot of guys go through the day."

"But I used to feel it, after. Drank myself dumb most nights. Back when you were still at home. I'd drink and tell myself, 'Thank God Steve's safe.'" He laughs bitterly. "Didn't know what you were up to." _Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse._ "Some days, it's like I can hit a speck of dust ten miles away with my eyes closed, but in here…" He brings his hands to his chest "Everything's all hollowed out on the inside."

Steve's fingers lace around Bucky's, and he presses a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

"I think—I think maybe they cut out my soul."

Steve rolls onto his side, and props himself up on his elbow, looks down at Bucky with that perfect face. "I know for a fact they didn't."

"How?" He's watching Steve, but can't keep from tracking the moth. It's shifted another fifteen degrees to the right and its lower left leg is twitching. Bucky hears it scratching against the fabric.

"Because," Steve says, sitting up. He brings their hands up, still laced together, and straddles Bucky, slow as anything, eyes locked on Bucky's, like he's asking for permission. "Because I know you. I've known you my whole life." He starts to lean down, still watching Bucky. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, lips inches away from Bucky's own.

But he doesn't. He doesn't say a thing, he just wraps his hand behind Steve's head and pulls their mouths together. And Bucky's heart comes to life. For the first time in weeks, it's pounding with more than just clockwork purpose. Steve relaxes on top of him, his full weight resting on him, and it should crush him, would, if—if they hadn't.

_Bad becomes worse._

But it doesn't matter. Because this right here—there is nothing bad about this. Steve kisses Bucky down low, where his shirt has rucked up. He fists the fabric and pulls up, tugging it over Bucky's head, and Bucky's eyes fly open and the moth is gone—he never even heard its wings flutter away. Steve strips his own shirt off and pushes Bucky back down with nothing more than his fingers. Bucky lets his eyes fall shut again, revels in the darkness, the warmth of Steve, huge and solid on top of him and all he hears is the sound of Steve's pulse mingling with his own.

He brings their joined hands down to his side, Steve lets go and wraps his hand around Bucky's shoulder, trails his mouth up Bucky's stomach and chest and then up the side of his neck.

Bucky's soul isn't dead after all. It's alive and it's hungry, it wakes from hibernation and latches onto Steve with everything. And Bucky finds himself clutching back, pulling Steve in desperately as they bring their hips together. And this is worse than being dead inside, this is so much worse, because he knows that Steve is the only good thing left, the only bright spot in a world gone grey. Steve's eyes are a brighter blue than the sky, his voice clearer than any panzer-fire. Every day, people shoot at them, and every day Bucky mows them down. Steve does his best to save whatever innocents he can. But to Bucky there are no innocents. There are only the armed and the unarmed, and anyone with a weapon aimed anywhere near Steve is a threat. So he takes them all down.

"It's okay," Steve whispers into Bucky's ear. "You're still you. I'm still me." He slides down lower, hands deftly undoing Bucky's belt. The cold air doesn't bother him in the slightest, and all he can do is watch as Steve takes Bucky's cock into his mouth.

The moan that spills out of Bucky is half pleasure and half sorrow, because how could Steve be so wrong. He has to know, has to know that bad becomes worse. He's the one who told him.

And Bucky wants to pull Steve off, throw him out of the tent and tell him to go anywhere else, lest he poison himself with whatever Zola pumped into Bucky's veins, but bad becomes worse, and he doesn't stop Steve, doesn't even try because he was finally coming together again, finally whole, the bits of himself forming one all-consuming need. All he wants is this one moment. All he wants is Steve.

In his mind he sees them marching endlessly through the snow—through armies of thousands. Bucky is armed to the teeth, and never grows tired and there's nobody else, just them against the armed hordes and he takes them all down, one bullet at a time. They fall and fall and fall until there's nobody left, until the snow is soaked red and the only one left standing is Steve, still smiling, still good, still clean. Even his uniform is spotless, shining bright like a flag they used to know.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve leads the Commandos from one Hydra base to another, and they all fall. Together, they're an unstoppable force. The Commandos rain down gunfire and grenades, while Steve distracts the enemy and keeps them focused on him—a bright target in blue. An obvious truth occurs to Bucky sometime during those bloody months— Steve's shield is painted like a target disk—but it's more than that. Steve, since he became Captain America _wants_ to be the target. It's his modus operandi. Draw all the fire away from everyone else and onto him. Because he can take it, or so he thinks. Except he isn't bullet-proof—Bucky's dug enough slugs out of Steve's shoulder to know they still hurt him. He just recovers from them faster. The wounds close in hours, disappear after two days.

So Steve protects the Commandos, and Bucky protects Steve. It's his primary mission, above all else, and sometimes there are close calls. Bucky hates close calls. They make him go into a blind rage and every time it happens, it's harder to pull himself back from the brink.

In one of Hydra's bases—in an honest-to-God castle—Monty finds Bucky while he's sill in the throes of that red, red rage, sees what's left of the Hydra Kommandant that nearly killed Steve.

He doesn't say a word to Bucky but follows him silently back out to the courtyard, where Steve gives orders to set explosives all around the perimeter and at key structural points of the castle. They leave seconds before the whole thing goes up in a fireball.

Nobody talks to Bucky on the way back through the mountains, not even Steve. But that's okay. He likes the quiet.

The mountain valley is near absolute in its stillness, snow-covered and pristine except for the occasional animal tracks. The forest creatures do their best to stay hidden, but Bucky catches glimpses of them—deer, rabbits, a wiry wolf, and a bear that blinks at them from just inside a small cave as they pass. Bucky considers tracking the bear down. It'd be difficult to skin, but the meat would feed the whole group. Something about that line of thought strikes him as funny. He should be afraid of the bear, but he isn't. He's hungry. He's always hungry these days.

When they set up camp, Bucky volunteers to find them dinner. He tracks down a stag and a doe and takes them down with one bullet each. After carrying the doe back on his shoulders, Dugan helps him bring the stag back to camp. They skin them together, Dernier and Jones sharpen roasting sticks and Steve and Morita build the fire. Monty stands guard, though he spends nearly as much time looking over his shoulder at Bucky, when he thinks he isn't watching.

But the others treat Bucky as an ally, as a friend. It's not that they've forgotten what's underneath his mask. It's that they're choosing to ignore it, or, like all the other horrors of war, they've just come to terms with it.

Dugan raises his flask and nods down to the empty spot next to him. "Come on. Fire's warm, and I owe you a drink."

Hesitant, Bucky steps closer and sits down next to Dum Dum. Morita, Jones, Dernier—they're all sitting around the fire. Steve and Monty are gone. He can see the outline of Steve just inside their tent. Part of him wants to go right to the tent, ignore the others. But they're in the war as much as he is. They've shared the same purpose since Steve freed them. They've fought against Hydra every day since then, just like he has, and he owes them at least a conversation. Especially since Monty's not likely to be a trustworthy ally much longer.

Dugan leans back and rummages in a pack, pulls out a bottle of bourbon and hands it to Bucky. "Been saving this."

Bucky studies the bottle. "This is good stuff." He gives Dugan a look. "You sure you want to waste it on me?"

Dugan laughs and slaps Bucky on the back. "After that save today? If anyone in this lousy gang of apes earned it, it's you."

Jones whispers something in Dernier's ear and they both bust our laughing, then Dernier raises the cap of his own flask. "Santé."

"To Barnes," Morita adds solemnly. "The only guy I know who's as good a shot as he is a man."

It's a lie, but the others cheer and raise their glasses, so Bucky tips back the bottle and takes a drink.

The bourbon feels warm going down Bucky's throat and it relaxes him. After an hour the bottle's nearly empty, but his head's still mostly clear which is disappointing more than anything else.

"So what's the story with you and Rogers?" Dugan asks.

Bucky sputters on the bourbon. "Huh?"

"He said you two grew up together."

"Yeah, back in Brooklyn. Known each other forever."

"He always been like that?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, like a—a paragon of virtue."

Morita stares at him. "Big words, Tim. Don't hurt yourself."

Dugan flips him the bird. "It's true though, ain't it?"

Jones sits up on his elbows. "I have met many generals and admirals who only had half the courage of Rogers. Even though I thought he was out of his mind when he found us."

"We all thought that," Dugan says. "Poor misguided soldier about to get added to Zola's collection."

Bucky flinches at the name, but looks away, hides it. "You're right," Bucky says, taking another sip. "He's always been stupid brave. Can't tell you how many times I found him getting his face beat in by guys twice his size."

Jones whispers into Dernier's ear and his eyes widen.

"They make guys twice his size?" Morita asks.

"Le maïs américain," Dernier mutters.

"He didn't always used to be that size," Bucky says, soberly. "Just last year, he only came up to here." He pats his chest, right by the heart, right by where Steve's head went whenever Bucky pulled him into a hug. Where it belonged.

"Yeah, he said something about the SSR." Dugan paused, yawning hugely. "And a doctor. A serum."

"Yup."

"I could use some of that," Morita says, taking another pull from his flask.

"There's none left," Jones says. "They used the last of it on him and then the doctor was killed."

"That's a shame." Dugan says. "Think of how much easier this war would be if we were all like him."

"If we were all like him, there wouldn't be war," Bucky says, and finishes off the last drops of bourbon.

#

When he gets to the tent, Steve is breathing soundly. Bucky tries his best to be silent as he slips into his sleeping bag.

Within seconds, Steve stirs, sidles closer to him and says, "Monty told me about what happened in the tower today."

Bucky's hands clench and he remembers seeing the Kommandant's rifle _aimed at Steve_ , remembers the feel of the tendons snapping in his grip, the warm spill of blood coating his hands. "He almost killed you. I stopped him."

Steve runs his fingers down the side of Bucky's arm, before adding. "You did what you had to do."

It's offered absolution. But Bucky has nothing to confess. What he did today is what he's meant to do—forever and always—fight by Steve's side, look out for Steve and take down anyone that means him harm.

Steve wraps his arm gently across Bucky's waist, but Bucky turns in his hold and pushes forward, kissing Steve on the neck, tasting his sweat, drinking it in and inside of him, something stirs. He'd eaten more than he'd had in weeks at dinner, but the taste of Steve pulls at his insides, strong as gravity.

Before he can stop himself, he's pushed his whole body flush against Steve's. But it's still not enough. He pulls back just long enough to yank off his own shirt, then straddles Steve, and rucks up his shirt, running his fingers over his stomach and chest. With Steve pinned underneath, Bucky ruts against him, until he feels Steve's hardness pressing against his own. And that pull inside of Bucky becomes an all-consuming need, possesses him wholly. He bites down on the tender skin of Steve's throat, sucks the flesh in until Steve's mouth drops open in a soundless gasp. Steve claws into Bucky's back, pulls him closer with that unreal strength until Bucky thinks his ribs will break, but they don't, and there's a spill of heat and wet and Steve panting Bucky's name over and over like a mantra.

Steve pushes against his chest, looks up at him with hooded eyes. "Bucky," he says, biting his lip. He reaches down, slips his slender fingers into Bucky's waistband and grabs hold of his cock.

For a moment, Bucky loses himself in the feeling of that warmth, but it's not enough. The t-shirt, still wrapped around Steve's neck, is an annoyance, and Bucky yanks at the fabric, pulls it over Steve's head. Bucky leans down and nuzzles at the mark he left on Steve's neck, then bites down harder, until he thinks he can taste copper and salt on his tongue. He imagines breaking the skin, drinking Steve in, imagines his blood colliding with his own and his heart pounds harder and harder until its aching. Steve's hips rock up towards him and he squeezes his fingers more tightly, then says. "The med kit. There's—"

The kit's within arm's reach and it only takes Bucky a half-second to find the small tube of petroleum jelly inside. He slicks his fingers and turns Steve on his stomach, pushing fingertips gently inside of him until Steve is _writhing_.

Steve reaches out behind him, pulls on Bucky's forearm bringing him in closer. Bucky finds a new spot on Steve's neck and latches on, as he brings his hand around his cock, using more of the jelly.

Steve lifts his ass up and back, and ever so slowly, Bucky slides in. It's warm and tight and Bucky moves gently, relishing every moment as Steve bites down on the thin pillow—the sounds he makes become deeper and ever more beautiful.

For the first time in months, Bucky doesn't feel monstrous. Inside of Steve, his own jagged edges smooth out, he feels whole and complete. And when he comes, he feels joy so pure it burns.

 

#

The next morning, Bucky wakes first. Purple-red teeth-marks stand out starkly on Steve's neck. Bucky traces his finger over the bruised skin and something fierce coils low in his gut, satisfied.

By that night, Steve's skin is unmarred and perfect again, and it makes Bucky furious. As soon as they're alone in the tent together, Bucky bares his throat, pulls Steve in close—bringing his mouth to that tender spot. He waits for Steve to latch on, for the hard press of teeth, but all that happens is one gentle kiss after another, until Bucky's snarling in frustration. "Bite down," he says, forcing himself to form the words.

Steve obeys, but it's far too gentle— he doesn't even break the skin.

"I want to feel you," Bucky says. "You heal too fast. Nothing I do lasts, but if you hurt me—"

"I don't want to hurt you," Steve says as he sits back in his heels,

"I want you to." Bucky sits up, snakes his arms around Steve's waist, nuzzles into the crook of his neck, flicking his tongue in a few key spots. "Please. I want to remember—even when we're out there—I want to know that this is real." Bucky runs his fingers over Steve's chest, digs his fingers into the flesh of those wide shoulders.

"It's real," Steve moans, bites his lip as he struggles to keep quiet and then squirms free, pushes against Bucky's hold.

But Bucky's stronger than he used to be. And Steve isn't really trying. Bucky pulls off his shirt, tugs impatiently on Steve's own. He undoes Steve's belt, yanks his pants down and mouths at his cock.

Finally, Steve fights back, grabs Bucky by the wrists, pins him to the thin mat. He stares down at Bucky, keeps both of them trapped in a holding pattern.

Bucky snarls, "Please."

Steve's eyes are shining and his voice wavers. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It's just pain." Bucky cants his hips, grinding his cock against Steve's thigh. He leans up, strains until he can reach Steve's mouth and kisses him, hard and hungry.

Steve shifts on top of him until his own cock is rubbing against Bucky's. He pauses, undoes his pants, and then slides, rubbing his length along Bucky's. The sensation's good, but not nearly enough, so Bucky reaches up, wraps his fingers around Steve's broad throat and squeezes. "Remind me why I'm still here. Make sure I don't forget."

Steve moans and his hips move faster. Bucky locks his legs around Steve's, pulls their bodies flush together until Steve's panting against his neck. And then finally, finally Steve bites down. Wetness spills between them, hot as fire.

#

The war goes on, and so do they. Steve gives orders, the others carry them out. Steve protects them, Bucky protects Steve.

The war goes on and on, until finally, fate brings them back to Zola.

The doctor is on a train, carrying weapons to the front. Even before the train curves around the mountain bend, Bucky can feel the familiar hum of the blue light. His veins shudder, and he feels his blood pooling in his fingers and toes, pulled towards the train as though by magnets.

They zip-line down to the train cars, and climb onboard—Bucky with Steve, Gabe right behind them. Hydra attacks immediately, separating them. Steve is trapped with an armored behemoth, firing blue-tinted ammo, and Bucky's stuck with a run-of-the-mill Hydra soldier who fires like his supply of bullets is endless. Bucky knows his submachine gun's nearly empty, and he's down to two magazines for his Colt.

The Hydra soldier dodges, often enough that Bucky's soon out of ammo. He ducks behind the large crates labeled _'Biologische Waffen'_ and wonders what Zola's designed since he last saw him, how many new bodies he has hidden behind how many new walls.

His handgun's empty, and he lost his extra ammo somewhere between the cliff and now. A shiver runs through him again, the closeness of all that glowing blue pulling on his veins. His own thin blood scrapes against his insides, recognizing a missing puzzle piece somewhere nearby. He tried to fill those jagged edges with Steve, the taste of him, the light, but that's not what he is, not what he's meant to be. In a moment, the soldier at the other end of the car will make another move, or that armored soldier will blast its way inside this car. And Bucky will fight until his last breath, but he has no doubt it will be his last.

He hears Steve's shield clang in the next car, and knows what he has to do. Steve still hasn't taken the armored soldier down. But he can, given a chance. He needs a chance, and he's not going to get one without a distraction. Bucky doesn't have anymore ammo, but he can be a distraction.

The door's forced open, Bucky tenses, and then Steve's tossing a spare gun at him. The Hydra soldier opens fire at Steve, Bucky lunges to his feet and fires back, and Steve slams one of the massive ammo crates forward. It flies into the soldier, but he dodges. Bucky fires again, and this time, he doesn't miss.

"I had him on the ropes," Bucky says.

Steve's lips quirk. "I know you did."

Heavy footsteps sound from behind, the armored Hydra soldier, on its feet again. Steve immediately shoves Bucky behind him yelling, "Get down!"

The blast is massive and bright as the sun, ricochets off Steve's shield with enough force to knock them all down. Bucky hurtles to the floor of the train, feet away, and hears the sound of metal tearing as the blast knocks out part of the side of the car.

"Fire again!" Zola's voice shouts over the intercom.

That voice, more than anything keeps Bucky conscious—gives him the drive to force himself to his knees. There are sparks in his vision, but he can see the shield just inches away. Steve is face-down on the floor of the train and the soldier is coming towards them.

"Kill him! Now!" Zola bellows.

Bucky fires. He won't be able to fight him off for long. But that doesn't matter. All he needs to do is get him away from Steve. All he needs to do is be a distraction.

He shoots again and again, bullets bouncing uselessly off the armored suit. But they did the trick. The train hums with the sound of the behemoth's guns charging.

The force of the blast hits the shield like a rocket, knocking it from Bucky's grip. He's hurtled back, out through the hole in the train and into the air. Scrambling blindly, he grabs out—fingers catching on something thin and metal. When he can see again, his hands are white-knuckled around a slender metal bar on the outside of the train car; he's hanging from the lowest rail of an access ladder, thin and warped from the blast.

"Bucky!" Steve yells from above. He climbs through the hole in the side of the train, grabs hold of another thin piece of access railing. "Hang on!" he shouts. And even though Steve is heavier than Bucky, the bar holds him.

It won't for long—it's already starting to bow under Steve's weight, and at that moment, Bucky sees the future—sees Steve reaching forward, sees the bars holding them both break, feels them both hurtling down.

The world can stand to lose Bucky, but a world without Steve is unthinkable.

Despite it all, Bucky reaches up instinctively. He trusts Steve, knows that Steve can save anyone, even him. He's saved him before.

But not this time.

The bar holding Bucky snaps loose, and he falls.

 

And bad becomes worse.

So much worse.

#

The days begin and end with ice. His life is death—bullets, knives and bombs delivered as ordered without question. Questions bring electric pain. He doesn't dream, he doesn't sleep, he stops and starts. His mind is emptied over and over and filled with thoughts that aren't his own.

There is no good, there is no bad. There is only the mission.

#

On more than one occasion, he feels the pull of the bright blue light, but the ice makes it stop, just like everything else.

And then something else pulls at him. A voice, a face, so _familiar_ that it cracks through the ice and he remembers _good_.

He must carry out his mission. He's ordered to kill him—the man that makes his heart ache. But he doesn't. He can't. But he hurts him.

He remembers _Steve_. And Steve remembers him. He remembers Steve, but doesn't remember how or when or why. He hurts Steve and watches him fall with dawning horror. He drops into the Potomac after him, lugs him out, no matter his one broken arm and the imprinted orders in his head screaming wrath. But he ignores the orders, focuses on pulling Steve to safety. He watches him breathe, remembers with startling clarity, that his place is by Steve's side. He remembers having a purpose—Steve protects everyone else, but _he_ protects Steve—Steve who is everything good in the world, the only good thing. And good becomes great and Steve was always great.

But then he remembers. Bad becomes worse.

#

There's a terrible itching in his veins. He doesn't know what Hydra was giving him, but whatever it was leaves his system violently. He spends two days doubled over as pain wracks his body and every scrap of stolen food and water he's consumed forces its way back out. But they made him strong, and his body heals.

His brain heals, slower than his body, but then it's taken so much more damage. It takes weeks for the memories to come back. Or rather, it takes weeks for them to stop coming. There's still gaps, dark spots where he can remember point A and point H and point S, but nothing in between.

His synapses reform, not always smoothly. There are days where he loses time, comes back to himself with bloodied knuckles and a new dent in the wall of whatever hole he's burrowed himself in. He moves from one city to the next. He remembers Hydra's safe houses, that are anything but safe—but on days where his brain feels clear he scopes them out, takes what he can from the shelves—cans of food, ammunition, unmarked cash.

He waits until two whole weeks have passed without an episode. Then he looks for Steve.

Of all the memories to come back to Bucky, the most distinct are from after Steve rescued him from Zola back in 1943. He remembers the constant fear, the only respite from which he found in Steve's arms. He remembers the nights in the tent, the driving, aching need to be complete again. And then he remembers someone else that saw Steve the way Bucky did—a woman that made Steve's eyes light up, a woman Steve should have married, would have, maybe, if Bucky hadn't clamped onto him with the fervor of a rabid dog.

Peggy. He remembers Peggy. He finds her in a hospital, older but still beautiful. He climbs in through the window, sits by her bedside until she wakes. She greets him with a fearless smile and it makes him feel ashamed.

"He misses you more than anything," she says. "Don't keep him waiting any longer."

#

Bucky tracks Steve down in New York City.

Steve looks exhausted. Like he hasn't slept right in weeks. He brings Bucky home—to a sparsely decorated apartment in a part of Brooklyn that looks nothing like Bucky's fractured memories.

His couch folds out into a bed and he brings Bucky blankets and pillows and says he'll be right in there, pointing at the door in the corner.

Bucky lies awake for an hour, then two. Steve's living room has floor-to-ceiling widows and even though Steve promised him up and down they were made from unbreakable glass—courtesy of Tony Stark (Howard's son), lying there, Bucky feels exposed. He pulls the sheet off the bed and moves to another corner. It's out of sight of the window and he can see Steve's bedroom and the front door from there. He lays flat, props his head on his right arm and stares at the small sliver of light spilling from Steve's room.

Hours later, his thoughts have started to drift randomly from one half-formed memory to another. The smell of the ocean and hot dogs, Steve's laugh, a seagull screeching. His eyelids start to fall shut.

_"You're my friend."_

_"You're my mission."_

_Steve lies beneath him and everything hurts, the back of his brain screams at him to do as he's told and his fist crashes forwards and he feels bones break beneath his knuckles. He smashes his fist over and over again until Steve's face becomes unrecognizable, because if he stops. If he gives him the chance, he'll keep talking. And then he'll remember, and remembering hurts. He'll remember that bad becomes—_

"Bucky?" Steve asks.

Bucky wakes with his fingers around Steve's throat. He lets go immediately and shoves himself away until his back hits the wall.

Steve holds up his hands, kneeling next to him. "It's okay.

"No, it's—" Bucky struggles for words, "It's— It's anything but okay."

"You were having a nightmare." He shifts himself closer, sits cross-legged facing Bucky. "I heard you calling me."

For several, long seconds, Bucky refuses to meet Steve's eyes. He can feel the weight of his stare. "I dreamt I didn't stop," Bucky says finally. "I dreamt that I killed you."

Steve takes a breath, but stays silent.

"I've had the dream before," Bucky says grimly, as he remembers how it always ends. "After I kill you, I deliver the mission report, and Pierce tells me I've saved the future." Bucky looks up at Steve. "And then I snap his neck, because what kind of future is a world without you?"

Steve swallows. "It was just a dream." He slides next to Bucky, sits shoulder-to-shoulder. "Pierce is dead."

Bucky clasps his hands together, rests his head against the wall. "I shouldn't have come."

Steve puts his hand on top of Bucky's. "I'm glad you did."

He's lying. "How could you—"

"I know exactly what the world is like without you in it," Steve says. "It's cold, and lonely, and I want no part of it."

Bucky stares at him incredulously. He knows Steve, he's always known Steve and he sounds so convincing.

"The only future I want is this one." Steve leans in close, presses a soft kiss against Bucky's cheek.

#

They don't sleep, but they lie together, there on the floor. Steve's arm wraps around Bucky's waist and the scent of him reminds Bucky of a small cramped tent, of cold nights and the press of teeth against flesh, the feeling of Steve's warmth. He turns until he's facing Steve and finds Steve smiling back at him.

All he wants is this one moment, all he wants is Steve. In his mind he sees the rest of the world fall away, until there's nothing left but them, in this room. There are no weapons, no armies to fight, no wars to win. Outside it's started snowing. The snow covers the streets and cars, covers everything until, when he lets his eyes blur, it looks for a moment like there's nothing else outside. There's just them, and this room, and peace. Steve lies across from him, weary, but still smiling, and kissing him makes Bucky feel like the man he used to be.

Bucky's not like Steve. He's always known that. He can never be like Steve, even if he wants to be. Since the serum, Steve's strength—his inner strength that Bucky's always known, has been on display for all to see, and since the serum, so has Bucky's true self. The world sees Steve's goodness and takes solace in it, and they see Bucky's true self and they are afraid.

But Steve always sees the good in people, no matter how deeply buried. And when Steve looks at Bucky, sees him as he really is, there's no doubt in his eyes, no fear, just love. Under that steady, unerring gaze, Bucky feels completely alive, and he thinks: Bad becomes worse, and he's never been a good man. But maybe he can be a better one.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations:**  
>  Aber wir wissen immer noch nicht wie es funktioniert  
>  _But we still don't know how it works._
> 
> Das ist egal.  
>  _That is irrelevant._
> 
> Die Energie ist unbegrenzt, und sie gehört uns.  
>  _The power is unlimited, and it belongs to us._
> 
> Unbegrenzte Energie,  
>  _Unlimited energy_.
> 
> Aber von der menschlichen Schwachheit begrenzt.  
>  _But limited by human weakness._
> 
> Finden Sie mich auch begrenzt, Herr Doktor?  
>  _Do you find me limited, doctor?_  
> 


End file.
